


a lesson in opening up

by postingpebbles



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (but doesn't know that he's caught Victor's eye as well), Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Crushes, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Pining, Showers, Yuuri makes the best brownies, and falls in love with him at first sight, in which artist!Yuuri is next-door neighbors with Victor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 01:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11453289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postingpebbles/pseuds/postingpebbles
Summary: How does one react when your cute (read: very,verycute) neighbor knocks on your apartment door and asks to use your shower to prepare for his date tonight?Why, you let him in, of course.(And proceed to panic for the next few hours because you've just let in the person that you've been crushing on for thepast six monthsinto your home, and you can't stopblushingaround him.)Or: In which Yuuri is a shy artist in love, Victor is his very smitten neighbor, and there is much more time spent out of the shower than in it.





	a lesson in opening up

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “My shower’s broken but I’ve got a date tonight could I possibly use your shower please?” “Oh sure (neighbour that I’ve been crushing on for the past six months) of course you can use my shower to get ready for your date (fuck fuck fuck)”
> 
> Hi guys!! This is for the [Catfish Prompt Party](http://catfishpromptparty.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr hosted by [thishasbeencary](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thishasbeencary)/[yoyoplisetsky](http://yoyoplisetsky.tumblr.com/) and [queenofaburiedkingdom](http://queenofaburiedkingdom.tumblr.com/), so please be sure to check out the other great fics that will be posted in the future!! This was so much fun to do because the prompt I chose was _hilarious,_ which made writing everything so much easier. I also tried writing in present tense for this as an experiment (which I rarely do, so please don't get mad if there are any errors!!), and I even used the "official" spelling for Victor's name haha. 
> 
> The person who sent in the prompt probably imagined something a little fluffier and funnier, so um, I hope I did a good job! Aaaand there are a lot less barely-clothed Vitya moments than I wanted in this—very disappointing, I know—though I think I'm quite satisfied with what I've written. :)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it!! ( ´ ♡ ` )

Yuuri wonders sometimes what his life would’ve been like if he never injured his ankle.

Maybe he’d still be dancing, he thinks, or even figure skating like he, Yuuko, and Nishigori used to do when they all were younger. He was actually about to start competing in the weeks after his injury, but his chance was ripped away from him when a groundless panic managed to seep its way into his _mindskinbones_ at ten years old, making him instinctively run to the Ice Castle.

And there, he skated until he dropped. It was a coping mechanism he had—for when the pressure he thrust upon himself became too much.

Okaa-san called both Yuuko’s mother and Minako the next morning, worried because he wasn’t in his room, and that was where the three women discovered him, lying pale and fragile in the middle of the ice.

Yuuri doesn’t remember doing _any_ of that, but it made no difference in the outcome. He overworked himself enough to require surgery to make his ankle function properly enough to dance or skate again—he also got a concussion from where his head smacked the ice—but Yuuri vehemently refused to have it. He's not entirely sure of the reason; a child's stubbornness knows no bounds and is quite hard to break, and no one could convince him otherwise. And so his ankle eventually healed with time, his headaches and dizziness went away, but when he tried a simple spin on the ice a few months later, it didn’t feel the same and Yuuri went up to Yuuko’s mother, bowed, and apologized that he could no longer skate the way he used to.

The same thing happened when he started dancing again in Minako’s studio, and Yuuri felt devastated. Ballet and skating was his entire life—who was he without them forming his identity?

He attempted to give the keys to the rink and studio back to the two of them, but they’d both smiled gently and closed his fingers back over it. And they told him the same thing: _For when you feel ready again._

But he never felt ready, and the keys are in a wooden box somewhere in his room back home now. There are some days that Yuuri regrets not having the courage to go through that surgery, but if he hadn’t, he supposes he wouldn’t have found his current passion.

Those countless days spent cooped in his room while both his ankle and brain mended themselves gave him _plenty_ of time to fill pages and pages of rough pencil sketches, and to rekindle an old interest of his. Adding ballet—and later skating—to his routine took up time he could’ve spent drawing, and suddenly being without them made him remember how much he’d missed being able to sit down at his desk and doodle for hours.

His parents encouraged Yuuri’s newfound interest, having felt worried when he stopped the others, and enrolled him in several art classes when he expressed a desire to improve. Some of his artwork garnered recognition as he grew older, and they got him a puppy as a reward—a tiny, wriggling lump of curly brown fur—and Yuuri instantly fell in love. He named the poodle _Victor_ as a reminder of how far he’d come _,_ but when Mari offhandedly commented that the name was a little too strong for a little thing like him, the puppy soon became _Vicchan_ instead.

Yuuri didn’t want to admit it then, but Vicchan fit the little dog much better than Victor did.

When he was seventeen, Yuuri mailed a portfolio of his art to various universities (both local and foreign), and later settled on attending an American one in Detroit, Michigan. The curriculum was tough, his English was wobbly, and there were many nights he called home in tears, but he managed to graduate from a school he never thought he’d be able to get through.

Yuuri lives in an apartment now, and has been out of school for almost a year. He doesn’t regret staying in America (most days), because his little apartment has quickly become one of his few safe havens, and has almost everything he could ever want. And because he has so much free time now, he’s able to happily dedicate so much more of it to his paints and various other mediums.

(He knows that he’s had to run to the store to stock up on more tubes of paint than sticks of charcoal, though—his favoritism is obvious.)

For the past thirteen years of his life, Yuuri has _lived_ and _breathed_ his passion (not adding the typical “sleep” to that phrase because—more often than not—he finds himself staring bleary-eyed out the window to where the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, realizing that he’s worked straight through the night), and as a result has spent little time cultivating anything unrelated to it, such as friendships with other people.

Yuuri can count the number of close relationships with people who _aren’t_ his family on one hand (Yuuko, Nishigori, and more recently Phichit who was his roommate in college), and there would still be two fingers left (because Minako counts as family) for people to make their homes in and _woooow_ that last bit may have been the strangest thing that Yuuri’s ever thought in his life, not counting the time when he and Phichit got drunk together when Yuuri turned twenty-one and began crying when he thought about sheep actually being four-legged clouds, but the point is clear.

Sure, it may be a little lonely at times, but he’s never really been one for much company. He’s thought repeatedly of calling home—to the onsen in Hasetsu—and ask to fly Vicchan over, but Yuuri worries about the space.

His apartment isn’t very big—the only rooms with doors are his bedroom and the bathroom, and he’s transformed most of his home into his studio. How would a puppy (or more realistically, a dog by now) fit in here with all this stuff?

(Yuuri _calls_ it a studio, but it’s really just his living room with all the couches moved back and away from all the easels and charcoals and acrylics. It may be his home, but in the end Yuuri’s still only renting the space.)

Having Vicchan around though would definitely make Yuuri feel a lot less lonely and add more life to his daily routine, though, and he’ll just have to be a lot more careful about what he leaves out in the open. He makes a mental note to ask during their weekly Skype call tomorrow as he shuffles over to a couch and curls up into the cushions, yawning widely.

Yesterday was another all-nighter (surprise, surprise), and when Yuuri pulls his glasses off and sets them on the side table, he remembers why he didn’t make any coffee after he finished that one painting this morning. He and Phichit actually work in a little coffee shop that opened only a few months ago (his artwork isn’t enough to pay _all_ the bills), and he idly remembers that he has to go in tomorrow. He definitely can’t stay up all night painting again. Yuuri actually needs _sleep_ if he wants to function like a normal human being.

It wouldn’t hurt just to close his eyes . . . just for a bit . . .

The sun is still up when Yuuri wakes a few hours later—he could’ve sworn he heard something—though the sky is tinged with a hint of brilliant crimson for when it would later set. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep later if he closes his eyes again, Yuuri sits up and stares through the curtains and to his balcony, trying to rub the exhaustion away.

It’s about five o’clock, and Yuuri’s eyelids are still heavy with sleep, but the buzz of the doorbell alerts him that someone is at his door. So he _didn’t_ imagine it, he thinks as he slides his glasses back on. And he must’ve been more tired than he originally thought, because Yuuri drags himself off the couch and lopes toward the entrance without a second thought.

If he wasn’t so sleep-deprived, maybe Yuuri would’ve glanced through the peephole before flinging the door open. Maybe he would’ve attempted to freshen up in the few seconds it took for for him to get there. Maybe he would’ve remembered that no one ever comes to see him unannounced except for Phichit, and _he’s_ visiting home in Thailand for spring break because _he’s_ still in stuck in college for a few more years unlike Yuuri.

But Yuuri _is_ sleep-deprived, _and_ fresh from a much-needed nap, so these things fail to run through his mind.

He pulls off the chain lock, opens the door—

And when Yuuri’s eyes drag up the long, long legs clad in dark, sinfully tight jeans, the muscular torso apparent underneath the black cashmere sweater, and lastly to the small smile and warm blue eyes on his visitor’s face, all traces of sleep fall from his body.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks succinctly.

 

* * *

 

Katsuki Yuuri met Victor Nikiforov six months ago when the other had just moved in.

Now, Yuuri’s a (very) non-social person, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t nice. He only meant to bring over a housewarming present or two, so the day after his neighbor settled down, Yuuri marched over to his new neighbor’s door and knocked sharply, balancing a Tupperware full of warm, gooey brownies fresh out of the oven, and a small cactus in his arms.

 _Cacti are cute,_ Phichit had assured Yuuri via FaceTime when he was agonizing over what to get as a gift a few days earlier. _Guy or girl, no one can resist a good cactus. And giving your brownies wouldn’t hurt either._

So Yuuri went shopping for ingredients (and a cactus), determined to not let his anxiety get the best of him. He’d smoothly introduce himself to his neighbor, make a (hopefully) good impression, then probably disappear forever into his apartment.

He hadn’t rehearsed what to actually _say_ to his new neighbor, but if he had—he knew the words in his mind would’ve disappeared like smoke as soon as the door opened.

Because when he smiled at him and said “Hello,” his accent curling pleasantly around the letters, Yuuri _knew_ that he was done for.

 _“Guh,_ ” Yuuri said intelligently, both the Tupperware and plant precariously close to falling from his hands and smashing on the ground, spreading soil and chocolatey goodness all over the carpeted hallway.

No one could blame him, of course. Because Yuuri’s neighbor was _gorgeous,_ and the first thing that he thought when he saw him was _I wonder what paints I could mix to get that shade of blue,_ not _Oh, look, my gifts are about to meet an untimely death against the floor!_

“For you,” Yuuri choked out, shoving both objects into Gorgeous Neighbor’s hands before he eventually ended up dropping them. “I live next door.”

“Oh, so we’re neighbors! Thank you,” he said, examining exactly what had just been forcefully given to him. Then his face seemed to light up when he realized what they were. “Are these brownies? And a cactus?” he asked eagerly, his blue, _blue_ eyes seeming to shine.

Yuuri nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak.

“I don’t have much of a green thumb, so having a plant that won’t die if I forget to water it is great!” his neighbor enthused. “And I don’t have much in my fridge or pantry right now, so brownies are _perfect._ Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” Yuuri said, his words still strained because of how beautiful (and apparently enthusiastic) this man was. Who had silver hair? Who welcomed strangers so easily?

Then Yuuri suddenly had the urge to run his hands through his neighbor’s soft-looking strands, then clenched his fists and kept his hands at his side. Gorgeous Neighbor kept unintentionally _doing things_ to him, making him act definitely _not_ like himself. It was honestly quite frightening.

“What’s your name?” Gorgeous Neighbor then asked, still smiling. “I’m Victor. Victor Nikiforov.”

 _Like Vicchan,_ Yuuri thought faintly, but the curious look from Victor made him realize that he hadn’t given his name yet. “Oh, um, I’m Yuuri. Katsuki,” he added soon after, his words tripping over each other in the haste to come out. “Yuuri Katsuki. That’s me.”

Then he flushed at his awkwardness, feeling familiar nerves beginning to settle into his mind. His earlier conversation with Victor had been so easy and nice—unlike many other first meetings with people—and he’d already screwed this first impression up . . .

“Yuri . . .” Victor repeated, his smile quirking upward. “How interesting.” Then a loud bark sounded from behind him and they both jumped, breaking the spell holding them together. Victor sighed, looking apologetic. “I’ve got to finish unpacking though, so I hope to see you around soon!”

Then the door closed, and Yuuri was left standing in the hallway, mouth agape.

 _He . . . wanted to see him again? See_ Yuuri? _But didn’t he just make a fool of himself?_

And the next day, the empty Tupperware was at his doorstep, with a sticky note attached to it, reading:

_Dear Yuri,_

_Thank you so much for those brownies! ( ´ ♡ ` ) They were delicious, and I may have to ask for the recipe at some point!_

_–Victor_

There were a few smudges at the end, but it was most likely because Victor had used pencil.

But with trembling hands, Yuuri picked up the plastic container and carefully peeled the note off of the lid. He stared at the emoticon as he traced over it with a finger, then dazedly stuck it on the side of his fridge. Yuuri gazed at the yellow paper fondly after, and didn’t even care that his name was spelled wrong. He fantasized for a moment about being able to correct it though, but then dismissed the thought. It wasn’t like he’d ever talk or see Victor again, even if they _were_ neighbors. Yuuri kept weird hours and only ever went out for his afternoon run, groceries and art supplies, work a few blocks down, or the random times he decided to go out to eat for once (by himself or with Phichit) instead of cooking like a sad loner. So why not have some sort of memento that Yuuri actually talked to a beautiful man and lived to tell the tale?

But he nursed that budding crush on Victor for six months after.

 

* * *

 

He wants a do-over.

Could he have one? Please? To whatever God’s out there, please, _please_ give Katsuki Yuuri a second chance and let him open his apartment door again to make things right.

It doesn’t seem to work, though.

Because right now he’s face to face with Victor Nikiforov, the cute (hot, handsome, _sexy,_ his mind helpfully supplies) neighbor that he’s been crushing on for the longest time, _while_ wearing loose boxers, a large, gray paint-splattered t-shirt that has wet spots from the drool when he woke up from his nap to answer the door, and most likely the worst bedhead the world has ever seen. His mouth is also hanging open—probably very unattractively.

So all in all, Yuuri looks like a _mess,_ and is not worthy to be in the presence of this beautiful man for more than point-two seconds.

And when Victor raises a perfectly-shaped hand and chirps a “Hi!”—it breaks Yuuri out of his neighbor-induced stupor and he instantly _shrieks_ and slams the door in Victor’s face. Then after a few deep breaths and a five-second pep talk, Yuuri opens it again (just a crack), and peeks through.

“Sorry, you scared me,” he explains weakly, noting that the smile on Victor’s face is still as bright as ever, if slightly confused after Yuuri’s earlier actions. He opens the door even wider. “Hi, Victor, I—um, I wasn’t expecting anybody today. Did you—did you—?”

His mouth is dry, his heart rate increases as he ~~stammers~~ talks, and he sways slightly in place as panic sets in. Then Victor’s eyes widen as he reaches out to steady Yuuri by the shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asks, sounding concerned. “I can come back if you’re not feeling well.”

Yuuri’s cheeks heat up as his gaze darts between Victor’s eyes and the warm, solid hand on his shoulder before finally settling on his neck. A nice, neutral ground, despite the perfect line of his pale throat and shape of his Adam’s apple. “N-No, I’m fine,” he squeaks. Then he clears his throat. “Did you need anything?” Yuuri manages to say, _while_ looking Victor in the eye.

(He mentally pats himself on the back for being able to do so.)

Then he watches the worry drain away from Victor’s face and settle into a smile that makes the corners of his blue eyes crinkle. He lets go of Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri silently mourns the loss while Victor says, “I’m glad! And yes, I _did_ need to ask you something.” When Yuuri doesn’t reply, Victor continues, “I have a date tonight, but my shower’s broken. Would you mind if I used yours?”

At Victor’s pleasant, oblivious expression, Yuuri’s already-strained smile slips.

_A—A date?_

Then he scolds himself. Victor has never belonged to him. Of _course_ he should be allowed to go on dates with girls (or guys; Yuuri isn’t sure of his preferences) because it isn’t like Yuuri’s ever _asked._

“M-My shower?” Yuuri asks instead, and cringes when his voice comes out much more hollow than he intended for it do. _Stupid,_ he tells himself. _Don’t make this so_ personal.

But warmth floods his cheeks as he thinks of what Victor in his bathroom could mean for his poor glass heart.

_Victor._

In his _bathroom._

Possibly— _definitely—_ naked.

Then Victor smiles, and Yuuri has to resist the urge to shield his eyes from its brilliance. “Yes. Is that okay? I’d just need to bring some stuff over from my apartment to yours—”

“Sure,” Yuuri blurts, firmly stepping away from the chance of ever being someone to Victor. He’ll just be that weird neighbor from now on—the one who bakes brownies and gives cacti as housewarming presents—because there is no way someone like _Victor_ would ever be interested in someone like _Yuuri._ “It's fine. I’m not going anywhere anyway, so I’ll just be—here. I’ll be here.”

Victor’s smile widens. “Perfect. I’ll be by in fifteen minutes. Thank you so much, Yuuri.”

Yuuri smiles weakly in return, and once he slides the chain lock back into place, he sinks down to the floor and rakes his hands through his hair.

Then he rests his head between his knees and screams.

 

* * *

 

 _Fifteen minutes._ Yuuri only has fifteen minutes to get both himself and the bathroom presentable enough.

In record time, Yuuri swipes on some deodorant, pulls on the dark jeans that make his ass look amazing (Phichit’s words, not his), a simple white shirt and a blue cardigan, and then brushes his teeth and washes his face. He wets his hair slightly to get rid of the messiness, then runs a comb through it. It still sticks up everywhere, but it’s a lot better than it was before.

Then it’s time to clean the bathroom. He wipes the mirror spotless (free from toothpaste splatters and water stains), sweeps the floor, and cleans the trash bin. Yuuri then rummages through his closet for an extra towel, and makes a triumphant noise when he finds the fluffiest one.

But all too soon, his doorbell buzzes again, and Yuuri scrambles to answer it. He peers through the peephole cautiously (he’s learned his lesson already), and his heart stutters when he sees Victor standing there, as promised, with a large bag in his arms.

“Um, hi,” Yuuri says breathlessly, stepping aside as he opens the door. “Come in. Oh, and please take your shoes off.”

“Of course. And thanks again for letting me use your shower,” Victor says, his voice warm. “Your apartment is lovely.” Then as they step out of the little hallway and into the living room, he laughs, “Oh, we have the same layout!”

Yuuri starts to smile at the coincidence, then his heart freezes in his chest as he registers the messy state of the rest of his apartment. He’d been so focused on the bathroom that he’s forgotten he hasn’t cleaned up the project that he’s been working on for the past few nights.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” he says, flustered. He tries and fails to block the room from Victor’s view. “I’m finishing up a few things for the gallery next week.”

“Gallery?”

“Oh, the one in the art museum a few blocks down,” Yuuri explains, surreptitiously trying to clear away his side projects—the ones of Victor’s face, namely. Or more accurately, the back of his body, since that’s mostly what Yuuri sees anyway. “They’re having a show, and I’m sending in some of my work so I can hopefully sell something.”

“You’re an artist,” Victor breathes, looking utterly enchanted, and Yuuri blushes _again_ at his enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not much, but I love it.”

“Yuuri, no, that’s— _wow._ Amazing!” Victor clarifies after, turning away from the easels and paints and the plastic over the hardwood floors to beam at him. He sounds so sincere that Yuuri doesn’t know what to do with himself.

So before he can embarrass himself by saying something extremely stupid in response, he says instead, “The bathroom’s the first door to the right. Um, please let me know if you need anything.”

Victor’s expression falls for a moment, but is back in place so quickly that Yuuri is sure he’s imagined it. “I will,” Victor promises with a wink, back to normal, and when he turns around, Yuuri slowly walks toward his couch and quietly sits down, his cheeks aflame.

He _tried_ to not say anything embarrassing, but he just told Victor how to get to his bathroom . . . even though they have the same layout. Did Victor finally see how hopeless Yuuri is with just a few words?

Yuuri isn’t going to last much longer—he’s either going to self-combust from anxiety, or from blushing too much, _or_ he’s going to end up spilling every iota of his fascination for Victor, _to_ Victor.

All three will end up killing him anyway.

 

* * *

 

It’s been about twenty minutes since Victor’s stepped into the bathroom.

Yuuri’s been baking brownies again (an odd habit that stems from whenever he hears or sees Victor—actually having him in his apartment only feeds that impulse), and the space is now full of the familiar smell of warm chocolate.

Baking also serves as a good distraction from Yuuri’s embarrassing fantasies (like imagining rivulets of water sluicing down Victor’s definitely-muscular torso, or just a wet, naked Victor, really), but now that the brownies are cut and scooped out of the pan, there’s nothing else to keep him busy.

. . . Then he pours two glasses of milk, just to do something.

Yuuri potters around his kitchen for a few more minutes, feeling restless and itchy inside his own skin as he sweeps up stray crumbs and cleans nonexistent specks from his countertops. The sound of running water, only a few feet away, is making him feel anxious. He needs a distraction. And soon.

Oh, maybe he should wash the dishes! Yeah, that sounds good.

When he places the last plate in the dishwasher, the water in his bathroom has long since stopped running (thank God for Yuuri’s water bill ~~and sanity~~ ), and he can hear cheery singing interspersed between soft hums in a language he hesitantly thinks is Russian. Victor doesn’t sound like he’ll be finished anytime soon, so Yuuri automatically gravitates back toward the living room to where his artwork is.

He’s been feeling somewhat reluctant to finish these paintings (the gallery's theme this season is _love_ and there’s only so much of Hasetsu and his family, friends, and Vicchan that he can paint), but a new energy courses through him as he begins a new one. It’s not the first time he’s painted Victor, or anything inspired by him, but this one feels different. And what started out as the blue of Victor’s eyes swirls into blue roses and long, silvery strands and a soft, secretive smile.

It’s not quite love that Yuuri feels for Victor (that would be weird since they haven’t had a decent conversation yet), but it’s something unlabeled. It’s a fascination in the way he smiles, the way he carries himself, the way he talks, in the way he gently—lovingly—scratches behind his dog’s ears. In the way he looks at Yuuri, even though they’ve only exchanged passing glances and short hellos in the span of six months.

He’s so immersed in the stories he’s painting that he doesn’t hear the light footsteps trailing closer.

“Wow!” Yuuri hears behind him, and he makes another undignified screech as he bolts up and (unsuccessfully) tries to hide his art.

“Victor!” he says, flushing probably right up to his ears. He’s always blushed easily, and it seems that Victor is determined (if not aware) to pull every single one out of him. “A-Are you finished with your shower?”

Clearly, Victor _is_ finished if he’s politely looking away from Yuuri’s work now, but he’s _definitely_ not finished changing. A fluffy white robe is wrapped around his body, cinched around his enviably slim hips, and the towel that Yuuri lent him is being rubbed languidly through his silver hair.

Yuuri knows it’s rude, but he can’t stop _staring._ Sharp collarbones tantalizingly peek out from the light fabric, then his eyes are then drawn to a single droplet of water sliding down Victor’s hair, which later makes a little wet kiss on his skin.

 _I want to lick it,_ Yuuri suddenly thinks to himself, but then immediately squashes that thought right down and shoves it _deep_ inside his mind. It is _not_ time for Horny Yuuri to come out—not now, not _ever_ while Victor is still in his apartment.

“I smelled something good and came to see what it was,” Victor readily admits, his smile open and honest. Unlike him, Victor seems comfortable wearing his heart on his sleeve. It makes Yuuri feel inexplicably jealous.

“I made brownies,” Yuuri explains, brushing past Victor to head toward the small dinner table to where the desserts and glasses of milk are. It’s a tactic to simultaneously force his eyes away from Victor’s gorgeous body, and to herd the other man away from his art. Years and years as an artist, and he’s still anxious about showing people what he’s drawn.

It’s still personal.

But Victor doesn’t seem to be offended or put off by Yuuri’s sudden actions, because his face breaks into a large grin.

“My favorite!”

“Favorite?” Yuuri splutters, his hands waving around everywhere with embarrassment as he turns to face the other man.

“My _favorite,_ ” Victor insists, his eyes seeming to glow with excitement. “It’s been six months since I’ve moved in, and I _still_ haven’t been able to find any brownies in this entire city that are better than yours.”

“O-Oh, thank you,” he says feebly. “They’re still a little hot, so you’re gonna have to wait a bit before you can eat them . . .”

“I’ll change quickly,” Victor promises, nearly skipping back to the bathroom with his excitement. Yuuri resists the urge to laugh. How old _is_ this guy anyway?

And ten minutes later, Victor is sitting across from Yuuri at the little dining table, dressed perfectly for his date later in dark, fitted pants and an ocean blue button-up that brings out his eyes. A faint floral smell hangs in the air around them—remnants from Victor's shower—and he looks like some sort of model with the rays of the setting sun making his skin glow (and he _is_ one—Yuuri shamelessly Googled him only mere hours after their first meeting), but that image is shattered as soon as Victor takes a bite of a single brownie and moans _obscenely._

Yuuri makes a choked sound at that. “They can’t be _that_ good,” he protests weakly. Only Phichit (and a few classmates) have ever tried his brownies, but such a small number isn’t representative of the whole.

“ _Vkusno!”_ Victor sighs happily after he swallows. “I thought I’d _die_ before tasting another one of Yuri Katsuki’s brownies again.”

“Oh, um, it’s _Yuuri,_ ” he finds himself correcting, drawing out the sound. “I never got to tell you, but my name is spelled with two ‘u’s, so it gets held a little longer.”

Victor takes this in. “Yuuri,” he tests, his tongue and light accent rolling around the letters. Then he grins and says, more confidently, “ _Yuu_ ri. _Yuuuuuuuuri—”_

“Victor!” Yuuri cries, though he feels strangely pleased. His name sounds at home in Victor’s voice, almost like it belongs there. But then his smile fades slightly as he lifts his cup and finishes the last drops of milk. Victor has never been his. He never will be.

 _But I can be selfish for a few hours,_ Yuuri thinks to himself. Victor never told him what time his date was, so he can just leave whenever he wants to, right?

“Have I ever told you about my dog?” Victor asks suddenly.

Surprised by the question, Yuuri shakes his head. And his interest in (and pining after) Victor only grows when he sees the other seem to expand with an energy that only reveals itself when he talks about his “little lady.”

“Makkachin’s such an old girl now,” he muses after his story. “I've had her for a long time, but she's still acts like she's a puppy.”

“I have a dog too,” Yuuri offers during a small lull in the conversation when Victor reaches for another brownie. “His name is Vicchan. He’s a poodle too, but he’s really small. Much smaller than what I've seen and heard of Makkachin.”

“Oh?” Victor asks, popping the chocolate square in his mouth. Still chewing, he continues, “Where is he?”

“Back home in Japan,” Yuuri answers, his smile nostalgic. “I haven't been back in about five years because of university, and—I dunno, I just ended up staying here after graduating.” Then he adds, unsure of why he's doing so, “He really loves going to the beach, so he'd wake me up really early so that we could go running. The sand was awful to clean out of his fur, but it was always best in the morning since everything was still quiet except for the seagulls.”

“Your home sounds lovely,” Victor murmurs, his gaze intent. “I’d love to visit sometime.”

“You definitely could!” Yuuri says, excited at the prospect of bringing more income to his family’s business. “My family runs an onsen—ah, sorry, hot springs,” he translates when Victor tilts his head at the unfamiliar word, “that doubles as an inn. It's called Yu-topia Akatsuki, in Hasetsu, Kyushu, and if you go you should definitely ask for katsudon. My mom makes the _best_ kind _,_ and all the Japanese restaurants around here could never compare to hers. I mean, I know how to make it myself, but it never tastes the same.”

Then Yuuri freezes, blushing as he realizes that he spilled part of his life story to a stranger. A kind, handsome stranger who also happens to be his neighbor, but there are _lines_ when it comes to talking with people and Yuuri’s just crossed like, _twelve_ of them.

But Victor doesn't seem perturbed in the slightest and leans forward, his eyes alight with curiosity. “Katsudon?”

“Pork cutlet bowl,” Yuuri explains, a little bashfully. “It's over rice and there's eggs, and my mom likes to add peas and carrots to it. It’s my favorite food.”

“You'll have to make it for me sometime, then,” Victor says, grinning. “It sounds delicious.”

“Maybe,” Yuuri says carefully. If he didn't know any better, it would sound like Victor’s flirting with him. But that’s silly—he’s going on a date with someone else later. “What about you?” he asks, wanting to stop talking about himself and learn more about Victor. Yuuri may be pushing down his crush (it’s a tiny, little one, he swears!), but that doesn’t mean they can’t become friends.

“I’m from Russia,” Victor says, “but I’ve lived in America since . . . I was twenty-three, I think. So I’ve been here for a little more than five years.”

“Wow,” Yuuri murmurs, impressed. That’s the same age he is now, and also explains why Victor’s accent is still a little strong.

(Yuuri’s not complaining about it though.)

With a small smile on his face, Victor continues, “I’ve been modeling for as long as I can remember, if pictures by my Mama and Papa count, haha.” Victor’s laughter is light and beautiful, and Yuuri is desperate to hear more of it. But he hangs off of every word, not wanting to miss anything. “My cousin is in the industry as well, but he does more 'behind the scenes' work—you have the same name, actually.”

After chasing down another bite of brownie with a gulp of milk, Victor adds, “It’s funny because all of Yakov and Lilia’s models and staff are Russian. It’s always a source of entertainment for the tabloids, but in reality we’re all Russian because we knew each other before. No one else has ever asked to join because they think we’re exclusive, and we’ve never corrected that—we just want people to come because they love what they do.”

“I can’t imagine being under the spotlight like that,” Yuuri says, shuddering at the thought. He doesn’t know how his already-fragile mental state would be able to handle having his name and life out in the open for everyone to see.

“You get used to it, but it’s exhausting,” Victor murmurs, and Yuuri knows that last part wasn’t really meant for him.

“Why are you even _in_ Detroit?” Yuuri wonders aloud, for the first time thinking about how strange it is that such a famous model is living in a tiny apartment in Detroit, Michigan, instead of a glitzy penthouse in New York City or somewhere similar. “Aren’t you based in L.A.?” _Across the entire country,_ is unspoken, but still hangs in the air.

And there’s a short pause before Victor admits, his voice soft, “I needed a break.”

Victor’s been a never-ending chain of surprises since he knocked on Yuuri’s apartment door a few hours earlier to ask if he could use his shower, or even since they first met. He’s handsome, yes, but in the time they’ve spent together Yuuri’s learned so much more about him. Because he’s also kind, thoughtful and warm-hearted, and an absolute _savage_ when it comes to eating his brownies. He’s blunt and tactless, too, and he acts overly personal at time, but he makes Yuuri feel interesting and liked when he listens to whatever he has to say, and Yuuri can’t help but savor the attention.

And he’s never _been_ one for attention, but he thinks he could maybe live forever if Victor Nikiforov never took his blue eyes off of him.

But Victor looked so _vulnerable_ during that earlier confession, and Yuuri wants to see him smile again. Anything else on his face seems wrong.

“I’d—I’d love to meet all of them someday,” Yuuri blurts after a few moments of silence. Just to take his mind off of whatever’s nagging at his mind even for a bit. “Your friends, I mean. They sound nice.”

Victor snorts, and Yuuri relaxes when the earlier blankness melts from the other’s face.

“Sure, they _sound_ nice, but they’re all extra as hell,” Victor says, shaking his head. “Georgi once begged to have a whole fashion show dedicated to his breakup with his girlfriend, vowing to wear nothing but a ridiculous robe covered in black feathers, and Mila likes to run around the studio while lifting Yura—Yuri, I mean—the cousin I was talking about earlier?—over her head. Yuri, actually,” he adds, “is apparently a natural at modeling, but his skill behind the camera is uncanny, so that’s where he’ll stay until he’s comfortable enough with being in front of it. Yakov swears it’s because of all of us that he’s losing his hair.”

Yuuri bites his lip to hide a smile. “Then how do _you_ stress him out?”

And without missing a beat, Victor says, “I eat too many wonderful brownies made by my adorable neighbor.”

This must be a new record for Yuuri because he manages to blush _again._ Because Victor is sweet and earnest and he’s probably like this to everyone else he meets. It’s nothing against him, really—Yuuri just thinks it’s so unfair how someone can be that pretty _and_ nice at the same time.

“I hope I’m not ruining a diet or anything,” Yuuri worries, only just realizing how dark it’s getting as he looks around. It must be around seven in the evening by now. When’s Victor’s date supposed to be?

But Victor shakes his head as Yuuri stands up to flick on the lights. “No, not at all. My metabolism’s always been insanely fast" —Yuuri does his best not to squish at his own slightly chubby stomach with shame as he sits back down; no matter what sort of exercise he does, the fat _refuses_ to ever completely go away— "and I go out running with Makkachin every morning anyway. A few brownies won’t hurt me at all.”

Yuuri wonders if they could've talked sooner if only they kept the same running hours—he's in the afternoon while Victor's in the morning—but decides not to say anything. It wouldn't change anything anyway.

“Try almost half the pan,” Yuuri laughs then, and it’s Victor’s turn to blush. The color looks different on the other’s lighter skin, like a light, perfect dusting of pink on his fair cheeks. Yuuri wonders if he’s even a pretty _crier_ because of how lovely he looks while blushing.

“I’ll have to run a few more miles tomorrow to make up for that,” Victor mumbles, self-consciously pushing the metal tin towards Yuuri. “Yakov will _kill_ me if I let myself slide too much while I’m away.”

“I think you’ll still look beautiful no matter what,” Yuuri says earnestly, then claps his hands over his mouth with mortification. He can’t believe he just said that.

But Victor, to his credit, smiles. It’s different from the hesitant, hopeful ones Yuuri’s been given during the entire visit, or the ones plastered on magazine covers that barely reach his eyes. Because this one is wide and warm and heart-shaped and utterly _beautiful._

“That means a lot, Yuuri. Thank you.”

And Yuuri smiles back, feeling like a barrier has just been broken between them.

 

* * *

 

Two more hours pass by without them noticing.

The sky grows darker, the moon and stars become brighter, and the two of them get closer.

Many stories are swapped in that time, and the heavy, nervous weight in Yuuri’s chest seems to lighten with every bubble of laughter that Victor manages to pull out of him. He forgets how Victor’s going to leave soon, how this is probably never going to happen again, how much he _doesn’t want to be alone anymore._

Because why would he think of his loneliness when someone so lovely is keeping him company?

“No way, you’re kidding!” Yuuri gasps, gripping the table as he leans closer.

But Victor nods emphatically, the mirth shining in his eyes contradicting his serious tone. “It’s all true. I swear.”

Yuuri snorts in response, then blushes as he brings a hand to his mouth as if he could hide the noise after Victor already heard it. “Sorry,” he begins, but Victor cuts him off.

“No, don’t apologize,” Victor says, shaking his head. He smiles. “It was cute.”

Yuuri’s mouth opens, then he closes it again, flummoxed. Is this flirting? _Was_ that flirting? He wants to ask Victor, to ask if he really meant to do that, but his anxiety gets the best of him and so he pushes that budding hope away.

“Don’t tease,” he whines, but Victor chuckles softly.

“I meant it,” he counters, his voice and eyes so unbelievably soft. “You’re very cute.”

“I’m not,” Yuuri denies, beginning to fiddle with his fingers. This must be what normal friends do, right? Phichit liked to tell Yuuri that he looked gorgeous or beautiful back when they were still roommates, and what Victor’s saying is just a simple compliment. One between friends. There’s nothing heavy attached.

They’ve been talking for so long that Yuuri’s eyes widen when he lifts his head to check what time it is.

It’s late. _Very_ late. And just when he thinks he’s become Victor’s friend, Victor will only remember him as “that one pathetic guy who made me stand up my date to entertain him and forced me to eat his brownies.”

Yuuri feels sick. He doesn’t want to ruin whatever this is—whatever’s beginning between the two of them.

“You should probably get going,” he says, trying to force a smile. Yuuri can feel how brittle it is at the edges, though, and Victor, clearly, isn’t fooled either. His perfectly-shaped brows are knitting together with concern, and Yuuri wants to sob. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s being selfish for wanting as much of Victor’s time as possible—for not caring about the consequences he’s tempting closer.

But instead of saying “Okay” and leaving, Victor merely fixes him with his blue, _blue_ eyes and asks, “Why?”

For a moment, Yuuri is dumbfounded, and an embarrassed heat creeps up his neck. Struggling to find the proper words, he repeats, “‘Why?’” At Victor’s slight nod, he says, “Because you’ll be late for your date if you haven’t missed it already, and you’ve—you’ve already wasted enough time by spending time with me . . .”

The words sound weak and flimsy, even to his own ears, so Yuuri stops speaking. Blood pounds against his eardrums as his thoughts travel in circles around his head and his anxiety builds. Victor isn’t the type of person to throw a person away; Yuuri _knows_ this from the short time they’ve spent with each other, but he’s been pining after Victor so long that it _hurts._ He doesn’t want to be the cause of Victor’s unhappiness, so it’s better he leaves before he realizes how pathetic Yuuri really is, if he hasn’t already.

Yuuri's so overwhelmed and confused by the thoughts in his mind that unbidden, a familiar wetness springs in his eyes. And when Yuuri closes them, the tears cascade down like a flood. He reaches up to rub roughly at his cheeks, his leg bounces nervously, and it's getting harder and harder to breathe. Yuuri knows he’s an ugly crier—Mari and Nishigori have teased him plenty back home. He’s disgusting and unlovable, and it’s not a surprise that Victor has had enough of him based on the way he abruptly stands up and passes by his chair.

What _is_ a surprise, though, is Victor leaning down and wrapping his arms around his body, feeling warm and safe and strong.

Yuuri, despite himself, cries harder and leans back into the embrace. How long has it been since someone hugged him? Phichit hasn’t visited since midterms and he won’t be back from Thailand for another week, and Yuuri hasn’t realized how much he needed a hug. So he breathes in Victor’s cologne, sweet and musky, and begins to feel his heartbeat start to return to normal.

“I’m not very good with people crying in front of me,” Victor says. “Am I doing this right?”

“This is fine,” he mumbles, trying to steady his breathing, and Victor says, “Good.” He’s bending over in order to keep Yuuri in his arms and it must be an uncomfortable position for someone as tall as Victor. But still he doesn’t let go of him, and Yuuri isn't sure if he wants him to or not.

So they stay like that for a while, with Yuuri sniffling intermittently, before Victor murmurs, “Believe me, Yuuri, any time with you could _never_ be a waste.” He hums for a bit, then adds, his voice low and gentle, “You intrigued me the first time we met.”

“O-Oh?” Yuuri asks, blinking. “How so?”

“There was something about you that seemed different, and I wanted to know the person underneath the shy man who gave me a cactus and a container full of brownies. You had this—I don’t know, sort of _spark_ in your eyes. I wanted to meet you again.”

“You could’ve,” Yuuri says feebly, feeling a little overwhelmed. Did he really make that sort of impression on him?

“I could’ve,” Victor agrees. “I almost gave you my phone number, you know. But I was nervous and erased it off the note.”

 _Victor? Nervous?_ It doesn’t sound like him, but that explains the smudges below where he signed his name on the little yellow paper.

Then he feels Victor take a deep breath, almost like he’s bracing for something. Yuuri knows that sound well. He does that all the time, so he steels himself for whatever’s going to happen next.

Yuuri expects something awful to come out of Victor's mouth—like, maybe he's a serial killer or something—but Victor confessing that he doesn't actually have a date tonight, nor is his shower really broken isn't what Yuuri prepared himself for. He blinks, dumbfounded, and after a while, nervous, disbelieving laughter bubbles from his lips. _This is ridiculous,_ Yuuri thinks faintly as he burns a hole into the wooden floor with his stare.

Through his eyelashes, he can see that Victor looks concerned, and is hesitantly reaching a hand out towards him before he eventually drops it back down to his side. Yuuri's _definitely_ gone insane. He'll open his eyes tomorrow and still be on the couch, feel slightly weirded-out because his dreams were filled with a fantasy of Victor Nikiforov, then head off to work. He's ready to wake up now.

So Yuuri subtly pinches his leg, and a soft _"Itai!"_ slips out of his mouth.

But Yuuri doesn't wake up—

_He's not dreaming._

The scenery doesn't change—

_He's not dreaming._

And Victor's still there.

"Are you mad?" Victor whispers, his face carefully blank.

But Yuuri doesn't answer the question, still mentally sifting through the emotions in his head; he's not entirely sure what to feel right now. Yuuri supposes he _should_ be mad—he allowed Victor in under false pretenses and it was probably illegal, but mostly he's just confused. Why would Victor make such an effort just to see _Yuuri?_ Was everything earlier an act? Was he trying to make fun of him? Did he not _care?_

"Why _did_ you lie?" Yuuri asks, trying to sum up his mish-mash of bewildered feelings into those four words.

“Because I was nervous!” Victor blurts. He looks guilty and distressed and upset as he talks, and Yuuri watches him with disbelief as the next words come out of his mouth. “You’re sweet and you're beautiful, a-and I wanted to ask _you_ on a date, but I didn’t know how.”

_Yuuri? Beautiful?_

No way.

Then Victor begins pacing (unintentionally ramping up Yuuri's anxiety), and runs a hand through his hair. “I—I overthought things. I had this image in my head of being this smooth guy, but—” He laughs humorlessly and leans against the wall, sinking down to the floor. Both hands are pushing his hair away from his face now. “You're special, and I wanted to make a good first impression on you. I _couldn't_ just ask you out like I would some random guy or girl back in California. You deserve _better_ , Yuuri, and I—I guess it didn’t work as well as I thought it would. I'm sorry.”

And after a few moments of silence, Yuuri lets out a deep breath, his cheeks feeling warm as he thinks about what to say next. Then he mumbles, “It did.”

Victor's head jerks up, his mouth slightly open. “What?”

“It did,” he repeats, louder, suddenly standing up and startling Victor. “Work, I mean.” Spurred on by his rare burst of confidence, Yuuri says wildly, letting the words fall from his mouth, “I—I’ll forgive you for lying to me if you take me out properly next time.”

He's already made up his mind. What Victor did was stupid and extra as hell, but Yuuri's decided his efforts are more endearing than underhanded. Victor's like a lost puppy, he thinks. Lonely and confused, but willing to find love wherever he can. Because Victor's a man who cares, and cares deeply. He's willing to put his heart on the line for a person he barely knows, in the hopes they'll allow him in.

There's no way Yuuri could be upset with him.

As he says that, Victor’s eyes widen, as if he can't believe it. “O-Of course,” he says, jumping to his feet. “But Yuuri, you're really not mad? I—”

Undeterred, Yuuri steps closer and says, “And you have to let me meet Makkachin, your cousin, your family—I want to know the _real_ Victor Nikiforov. Not the model, not my neighbor, just _you._ Like the way you wanted to know me.”

Victor says Yuuri’s name helplessly, but Yuuri shakes his head and places trembling hands on Victor’s shoulders. He has _more._

“I have a confession too,” he says firmly, still managing to look Victor in the eyes. Yuuri takes a deep breath, similar to the one Victor took earlier, and says, “I had a crush on you ever since you moved here.” And Victor’s eyes brighten as Yuuri continues, “And I also think you’re sweet and beautiful, and I really, _really_ loved spending time with you tonight. I thought you were out of my league because who’d want a chubby, anxious mess like me—”

“Yuuri, you’re not—”

But his voice raises in volume as he continues, “But you stayed with me and ate my brownies, and made me feel loved. So thank you. For that. Even if you had to lie in order to do so.” Then Yuuri smiles, to reassure Victor that he really isn’t mad.

And he hears Victor’s breath hitch before he leans forward into Yuuri’s space and crushes Yuuri's body against his chest. It might be strange to some people—being physically affectionate after only two shared conversations—but to Yuuri it feels _right._ So he melts into the embrace, and distantly, as he rests his chin on Victor’s shoulder, he registers that Victor’s the _perfect_ height to hug.

Victor smiles then, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed as Yuuri continues to stare at him. “You’re certainly full of surprises,” he murmurs. “I look forward to getting to know you better, Yuuri Katsuki.”

“M-Me too,” Yuuri stammers, his earlier confidence popping like a bubble. But he smiles softly. Even if he doesn’t have the same penchant for words that Victor does, the meaning is there all the same.

When they’re at Yuuri’s door and Victor’s belongings are hanging over his arm again, Yuuri plucks at his shirt sleeve.

“This is real, right? No tricks?” He doesn’t know why he needs to ask that—clearly, Victor is very interested in him for some odd reason—but there’s no controlling what his anxiety whispers in his ear. They’re still strangers, after all. They don’t know each other, and the rose-tinted glasses will have to come off at some point; they could end up _hating_ each other.

But Victor leans down to press a feather-light kiss to Yuuri’s cheek, effectively erasing the toxic thoughts. And Yuuri blushes as Victor promises with warmth in his voice, “No tricks.” Then he winks as he slips his shoes back on and goes out the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight? In that coffee shop a few blocks down? We can start over then.”

Yuuri laughs when he realizes where the place that Victor’s referencing is. “Well, I _work_ at that coffee shop tomorrow morning, but I’ll see what I can do. And please bring Makkachin—it’s _very_ pet-friendly there and I’ll need a good distraction from customers.”

“Yuuri, I’m starting to think you’re only dating me for my dog! And I’ve never seen you working there!” Victor gasps, looking scandalized, but Yuuri laughs again.

“You must’ve just missed me whenever you went,” he teases. It’s beginning to feel natural around him again after their shared confessions, and he feels warm when Victor fixes him with a soft smile.

“Goodnight, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat at the genuine tone, and his bare toes curl pleasantly. He smiles back. “Goodnight, Victor. And . . . thank you for the date.” _And for thinking I’m someone special._

“No, thank _you,_ ” Victor replies cheekily, and Yuuri fondly rolls his eyes.

“Go home,” he calls. Victor complies, but not before pecking him on the cheek again, drawing out yet another blush.

And though Yuuri closes his door once Victor steps inside his own apartment next to him, it feels as if his heart and mind are still wide open with hope—giving him a chance to see what his life will become. He can hear Victor rummaging around in his home through the thin walls, along with joyous barking and an equally joyous greeting in muffled Russian, and Yuuri can only of what could happen if their lives happen to intertwine further in the future.

He can’t wait.

 

* * *

 

_eight months later_

"Hello, welcome to The Brewery, what would you like to order today?"

The customer makes a show of examining the menu even though he knows it by heart already, and the poodles at his feet (one big, one tiny) paw at his leg with impatience. And Yuuri suppresses a smile as the man says confidently, "I’ll have a medium mocha, and _two_ puppy treats, please.”

“Will that be all?” Yuuri teases, leaning over the counter so that their noses touch.

Then Victor captures Yuuri’s lips with his own. “Maybe not,” he murmurs against his mouth, grinning.

“For here or to go?” Yuuri asks breathlessly. It's an attempt at remaining professional, but any sort of professionalism always goes out the window whenever Victor walks in.

“Could I take _you?”_ Victor whispers suggestively, and Yuuri can’t help but blush.

“I’m _working,_ ” Yuuri whines, playfully pushing his fiancé's face away. Eight months of dating, a few weeks of engagement, and Victor _still_ doesn't get tired of bringing color to Yuuri's cheeks.

But Victor kisses him again and winks. “I’ll be at your apartment when your shift ends. I’ve walked Makka and Vicchan around the city, and I _definitely_ need to use your shower. It’s _much_ better than mine, I'll have you know.”

“As you’ve told me,” Yuuri says fondly. Their first—or rather, _second_ —meeting was a little unconventional, but they both make a living by surprising people. It only makes sense it was how their relationship sprung to life. When he hands him his drink and brown paper bag full of puppy treats, Yuuri says, “I’ll see you later, Vitya.”

“Goodbye, my Yuuri,” Victor says affectionately.

Yuuri stares at Victor's retreating back then sighs happily, dropping his gaze to his hand to admire the gold engagement ring shining under the fluorescent lights of the coffee shop.

"I'm getting invited, right?" Phichit asks when Victor's gone, drizzling chocolate sauce over whipped cream for another customer's iced coffee. "Wait, don't answer that—I _know_ I'm getting invited to the Katsuki-Nikiforov wedding. I _told_ you the cactus would do the trick," he says sagely, like he does almost every time he sees Victor and Yuuri interact. A bit of chocolate finds its way onto the counter because of his enthusiasm, and the waiting customer wrinkles her nose with distaste. "You were able to snag the World's Hottest Bachelor thanks to me."

" _Phichit,_ " Yuuri warns, giving him a meaningful look.

Phichit falls silent, though the grin stays on his face as he hands the coffee to the impatient customer. "You know, I'm proud of you, Yuuri."

"I am too," he mumbles, still unable to comprehend how he managed to find someone like Victor, and get loved so much in return. It was a happy eight months as they filled the crevices in each other's souls with themselves, and yes, there were misunderstandings and fights and days when Yuuri felt so completely lost, but together they're stronger now because of them.

They're in love, and will be for as long as time allows them.

"Everything you dreamed of?" Phichit asks softly, his eyes glowing with warmth.

Yuuri brushes his thumb over the ring and smiles. "Everything and more."

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> ~~the title's a pUN—Yuuri had to open up both his home and heart to Victor, and learned to trust him with both haha—it was a complete accident bc i thought i was being uncreative with the title, but i loVE it now *wheezes* and please don't mind the cliché coffee shop name lol~~
> 
>  
> 
> Let me know what you thought!!
> 
> Also, come say hello to me on my [Tumblr](http://postingpebbles.tumblr.com/) if you'd like :)
> 
> EDIT: Jo's really heckin great and they drew me **[art](https://twitter.com/jumpforjo/status/1041175214351167493?s=21)** I'm cry pls look at it, it perfectly captures Actual Disaster Katsuki Yuuri and Devastatingly Gorgeous Victor Nikiforov _bless_


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